


may we meet again

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, Modern AU, Reincarnation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>before they were Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin, they were a different story ( or: in which Bellamy and Clarke are actually their second chance)</p>
            </blockquote>





	may we meet again

**Author's Note:**

> (their names aren’t really Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin yet, but they still are Bellamy and Clarke ( or will be), so I think you would forgive me calling them by these names, would you?)

The first time he sees her it’s the New Year’s Eve; god, it can’t be more pathetic.

He’s a bit drunk already and the room is swaying in front of his eyes as he catches a glimmer of her golden curls on the crowded corridor of his sister’s impossibly tiny apartment. She is holding a glass of red wine in her left hand, black dress skin tight and no shoes, sitting on the small coffee table and laughing. He stops half-way and stares at her; he founds the way red wine stains her lips deeply fascinating and her milky skin looks soft; warm, blushed cheeks and those hair, man, like princess curls. She takes a small sip of wine and her eyes are scanning the room until they are locked with his.

And that’s exactly how it begins.

[- How are you doing, princess?

\- Quite nice. And how are you, my knight in a shining armor?

\- Right now? Amazing. ]

 

He doesn’t think she is a snob and she doesn’t hate him violently as they will in over a hundred years ( because nothing ever happens in the same way) No, they click with each other straight away; they spend the rest of the evening talking on the balcony. He watches her as she makes small circles out of cigarette smoke and she asks him to show her his tattoos and when the clock strikes twelve, they are both drunk enough to kiss.

His lips are soft and smooth on hers and she had boys and girls, oh she had so many, but it has never felt like this before. She can almost taste infinity.

She can almost taste stars.

He wakes up alone on his sister couch a receipt from coffee shop in his shirt’s pocket, just above his heart, a line of numbers and a name on the blank side of it. He can’t stop smiling. He can’t even wait two days, like O advised him to. He just calls her the next day.

[199-230-678 Clarke. ]

* * *

 

They aren’t lovers, though.

Neither of them have an idea why ( cause he can’t sleep at night thinking about her shoulder blades and the way her neck looks when she pulls all of those magnificent hair of hers up and she catches herself fantasizing about him when she takes a shower and finishes it with her cheeks painted red)

They are not lovers. They are a lot, though. They grow into each other surprisingly quickly. Before either of them notice, he keeps a photograph of her in his office and she has his number first on speed dialing. Her best friend hates him ( okay, so let it be, some things will repeat, but I guess it’s inevitable) and she doesn’t fancy his colleagues either but they have a small pack of shared friends. His sister is her biggest fan, so are his parents (because he has both of them. His mum is an artist in this life (he watches two of them engaged in a long discussions about whether modern art allows artists to express themselves deeper than classical or the other way around more than once ) and his father is a doctor; he is far less broken then he will be; partly because of this) and they want them married as soon as possible.

Needless to say, they don’t visit them often, because visiting them makes them feel too much and think too much and it makes such a mess in their so organized lives. In this life, she doesn’t know her parents.

( he holds her tightly to make sure she knows she’s wanted, that he wants her, though)

They are not each other’s best friends. These positions are both already taken. But damn, if they aren’t so much more

* * *

 

[- Bellamy… Stay.

-You really want me to, Princess?

-I need you. ]

( and he swears, it means so much more than ‘’iloveyou’’ he could've heared instead)

* * *

 

They love to argue. Their friends swear it’s a kind of sport for the two of them, really. They can argue everywhere and about anything; even, if they share the same opinion. They argue with a violent, flaming passion, all blushed cheeks and waving hands, not being able to keep cool even for a second. They argue in the same way some people have sex; crazily, with a certain amount of tension and intimacy which makes it uncomfortable for other people to be around them during one of their infamous collision of opinions. It’s a fascinating thing to watch, because they don’t just stop; it’s like a storm, when they run out of fuel, they just stop shouting and go on as usual.

Secretly, both of them just love it

(it’s not such a big secret, to be honest)

* * *

 

He stands beside her during her first exhibition. He even holds her small, sweating hand while she engages herself in hundreds of hundreds polite small talks with people she doesn't like or care about, seemingly relaxed, but her muscles still tense. They barely have time to look at her works; only when she disappears in the restroom with his sister by her side, he can finally see the effects of the trial of sleepless nights she spent with brushes and charcoal.

 Her sketches are small, all black and white smudged lines ; a twisted cloud of smoke above the wild forest; long knife drawn with elegant lines, blood dripping from its edge; the eyes of the child wide open, frightened and haunted; a collection of metal cages with curled up figures inside of them. Her paintings, on the contrary, are big and colorful and violent and, yeah, beautiful. Cruel red and radiant yellow and deep, dark green, magnificent blue all mixed up with the most fascinating contrasts he has ever seen. She painted wild nature and on the first glance these are just pretty pictures with pretty coloring. But the longer you stare the more you start to notice.

 Just beneath the surface of the clear blue river, you can see the slender figure of the water snake creeping in. There is deer surrounded by the bliss of forest flowers; he's just about to turn around you and you can see more than one pair of black eyes. The night sky with shooting stars is just breathtaking; but you can just feel, that these not a kind of shooting stars you can wish on.

 And people. She has a whole collection of people on her canvas but she never shows a whole person. He spends five solid minutes staring at the picture of the pack of the girl in red leather jacket and a long, brown ponytail. He finds his own freckles and O's blue eyes and a set of cheekbones that remind him of something wild and dangerous.

He raises your glass with the rest of the people in the room. She well deserves it.

 ( ''who we have to be'' that's how the exhibition is called. Karma is a bitch, you can say)

 [ Why do you draw the things you draw?

 I don't know. They scare me. I guess I just try to slay my demons while I'm awake]

 (oh yes, karma is cruel)

* * *

 

 

 

He loses it one Friday night.

They basically live together at this point (somehow. Again, nobody has an idea how the hell that happened). He is getting ready for his night shift and she is making him a sandwich, wrapped in  one of her old, disgustingly mustard sweaters, with nothing under it; her legs driving him crazy as she walks around the kitchen, holding a butter knife in one hand and a jar of jam in another, wearing one pair of those ridiculous, comfy socks he bought her without any particular occasion.

He looks at her and- god, he just _loses it_.

Before she can even realize what’s going on, she is pressed against the cupboard, her hands in his hair, his delicate on her cheeks, her body automatically adjusting itself to his as if they were two pieces of his favorite Winter Time Jigsaw Puzzles. She bites on his lower lip and he releases her hair from a ponytail and locks his arms around her waist to pick her up and neither of the think straight anymore- hell, neither of them think at all, period. He lays her down on the bed and calls his boss, imitating a cold ( as she laughs frantically, half naked and so painfully beautiful, the crown-alike birth mark high on her tight which he has never noticed before ) and she kind of makes him laugh too, so instead of having sex,  they end up pressed to each other under the sheets, shaking with laughter, hands pressed to mouths until they are replaced with lips.

( they are Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin, but in the same time they aren’t and one hundred years later it’s so much more difficult for them to have an occasion for a good laugh. They don’t know it ; yet, they don’t waste a single one, though. )

[ - God, can you stop laughing, Princess? I need you to focus for a while

\- You can’t expect me to be serious. You look hilarious.

\- Clarke!

\- Really, really hilarious- oh

\- Well, let’s see who will be laughing last] -

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

They keep it a secret, just for fun.

He brushes the marks of lipstick from his mouth before anyone can notice them and she wears turtlenecks in the middle of June, trying to cover the choker of red love bites around her neck.

( she hates him for them. ) ( she loves them.) ( he keeps on giving them to her, being perfectly aware of this)

However, his mum kinda knows, because she sends him the look and smiles to her even more brightly than she used to. His sister definitely knows, just because she is his sister and there is no way she would miss the sudden lack of always  so present painful sexual tension between these two. The rest of the world gets to know as their friends visit them without any previous announcements and they walk on her making a dinner, wearing red lipstick, heels and a little black dress, candles on the table, wine in the glasses. ( half of them win the bet and half lose it)

( yes, they were so betting on how much time it would take them to finally just let it go and sleep with each other)

( O’s boyfriend ( I think we can call him Lincoln) is the biggest winner of them all)

* * *

 

He proposes  on Golden Gate Bridge during their winter holidays and they lose the ring when he slips on the thin layer of ice. She actually faints, when she sees blood ( in some ways Clarke is nothing like her) They spend the evening in the hospital, as he is given nine stiches on his forehead.

[ - You total moron. You idiot. You could’ve fallen along the ring.

\- Does it mean yes?

\- Well, I’m

with you in the hospital. I think you should read it as a screaming ‘yes’ from me.]

( he buys her a new ring)

They get married in May, a little over a year since they first met.

[ I used to be a selfish man. I used to be a cruel man; I grew up rough. But you taught me how to be kind, how to be gentle. You taught me a lot about hard decision and about

bravery and about guts to do the things we have to do]

[ I need you. I’ll always need you. And this is not my weakness; this is my strenght. Whenever I lose myself, you are here to remind me who I really am.  You are the most amazing miracle that has ever happened to me; you are my family. ]

( One hundred years later exactly the same lessons will be given and received. You cannot escape your fate, never, not really)

* * *

 

When the world starts to end, she’s already dying.

Their honeymoon interrupted by her constant fainting; nervous waiting on the white, hospital corridor; final stage of leukemia could be as well tattooed on her forehead.

She is surprisingly calm and she kisses away his tears and he clings onto her, his face resting on her chest, her hands gently caressing his hair. She kisses every single one of his freckles and paints a painting over a painting as if she was afraid she doesn’t have enough time ( she doesn’t) .

When he turns on the news and gets to know about bombings,about death and destruction, he is almost happy. He won’t have to bury her; he would be so quick to follow.

They move in to his parents and so is his sister; people don’t have a place to hide so they gather together, trying to spend those last final weeks in the best way, as close to their loved ones as possible. They fall asleep tangled with each other so tightly, that they lose recognition which limbs are whose.

She cuts down her hair, a thick layer of golden locks on the bathroom floor, steel determination in her storm blue eyes, scissors in her now a bit shaking hand, bare feet. He watches her leaning on the doorframe and can’t shake the feeling that time has made a whole circle.

When the world ends, he hold his sister’s hand and she is curled on his lap, face pressed to his chest, cheek against his heart. The bombs fall down. People scream. She is shaking violently. He loves her. She loves him. There is not so much to say.

[- Goodbye Princess. We will meet again.

\- We may. We will.]

* * *

<

He has on hand of the lever, about to open the dropship door, when he hears her voice. He turns around to see the halo of golden hair and from then on he can’t shake off the feeling _I know her, I know her so well_ (aren’t her curls supposed to be short now?) 

* * *

 

He is tall and tanned and she has never seen him before but she can swear on her dear life that he has the total amount of thirty three freckles scattered across his cheekbones and she knows those lips, oh, she knows them so well.

* * *

 

And that’s how they meet again.

( They kept their promise. You can never really escape your fate) But nothing happens in the same way twice ; this time, they are an entirely different story.


End file.
